Six Years Later
by Waywardist
Summary: What if Jay Gatsby faked his death and left everything behind with no intentions of looking back? And what if, by some work of inevitable and terrible fate, he and Daisy were reunited?


They always met unexpectedly.

They always saw each other when they had long lost hope of seeing one another; when they were grasping at hope like straws, yearning to keep it but knowing well enough that they would lose it. They always saw each other when she had pushed him from her heart and mind and body and soul; when she had convinced herself, weeks, months, years later, that she would never cross paths with him again. They always saw each other when he felt like there was no use in hoping anymore.

The first time, he had shown up at her house alongside dozens of other soldiers amid the war, looking for nothing more but a good time and a passing memory; in actuality, that memory had been everlasting, ebbing and flowing against every synapse in his mind with the whispering promise of eternal love. The second time, it had been somewhat by chance, somewhat by fate, somewhat by a mutual acquaintance. He had been waiting for that day to come along, and he had never prepared too much for it, and he had been too nervous. He had never been so happy in his life, and he had never been so ridiculously stupid. He was getting himself into even more trouble than before, and he didn't know until it was too late.

That was when he had to do everything so hastily, and so messily, but it had come as such a shock to the world that nobody thought twice, and nobody doubted anything. Nobody even gave him a second thought—after he had managed everything as well as it could be done, nobody acknowledged his memories or reminisced on the good times he had procured. They turned a blind eye and a deaf ear and it was as if he were the nobody he started out as all those years ago. Things like that hardly hurt him anymore, though—it hardly mattered anymore. Long ago, as a young boy, he ached and yearned and blinded himself with illusions of grandeur and longed for wealth and fortune and glamour. As a young boy, he strived to make a name for himself. Now, as a man, he strived for little to nothing. He had the wealth, he had the fortune, he had the glamour. The illusions of grandeur were so blinding that he saw them as reality and no longer just illusions. What hurt him was not the absence of chatter in his name, but the absence of her. He didn't blame her—he never would, he never could. He was always to blame.

After everything had been done so messily and hastily but done nonetheless, he'd had no other choice but to create another alias, another name, another identity entirely. He kept his gentlemanly manners and his style and money, but he moved locations and names. The initials were kept the same and anyone that knew him well in his previous life would have immediately recognized him, but he was a new face amongst the sea of people in this booming new town. He was nobody recognizable, nobody worthwhile, and that hurt, just barely. It hurt like a chisel tapping away at his armor, leaving scratches and scrapes but nothing that couldn't be buffered or fixed. And it remained that way for nearly six whole years; making another name for himself and rising to the same popularity and genius as he had been in his previous life. Long gone were the routine but erratic parties that wrought havoc and mayhem and undeniable fun; long-lasting were the times of wine and nights in and women that he simply enjoyed talking to, though he'd always end up asking about her anyway.

For almost six whole years, he continued that way—building a routine for himself, but a routine that felt empty and meaningless, and she was always there, always in his mind and taking up permanent residence in his heart and soul, and there was no way to shake her, and he did not want to shake her. But on the eve of the sixth year, it happened again, entirely by chance. Gone was the white dress and the cascading, beautiful white-gold hair that hung to her shoulders during their first encounter. Gone was the three-pointed hat and yellow dress of their second encounter, the rushed one, the one he half-prepared for. Her hair, golden and beautiful as ever, hung almost past her chin, and she was adorned in many different strings of pearls and jewels, all alien to him. The lacy dress that hung shapelessly on her graceful, glamorous body was a pale blue, almost grey, the color of sadness, of woe, of guilt and longing and forgetfulness. And he was not dressed in a uniform as he had been during their first encounter, nor was he in a pale suit like the second encounter, soaked to the bone with nervousness and dread, but also excitement. He was in a pinstripe suit, one of navy and white, like the white that streaked his flaxen hair.

She was seated on a chair, draped across it in a playful, joyous manner, laughter escaping rosebud lips. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold of the winter she had just escaped from, and her jacket was quickly shed from her shoulders for the butler to hang in the coat closet. She didn't see him. He always saw her first; this he knew by routine. She was oblivious to everything around her at all times; the only thing that was ever on her mind was herself—did she look good? Did she draw in all those around her? She always did. She had that gravitational pull that magnetized others to her as if in a daze. He was always in a daze around her.

It took everything he had not to run to her, to take her hands in his and give her the softest, gentlest kiss on the lips, and the forehead, and the tip of her button nose, and both of her cheeks and eyelids. He was stunned, shocked, and thrust into nervousness and endless despair and insecurity. He was insecure over his looks and his demeanor and what might cross her mind when she saw him. He had the incredibly strong urge to turn tail and run as completely far away as he could with no promises of ever looking back—but looking at her now, wrapped up in her comfort and glee, he wanted nothing more than to swallow his fear and go to her, as he always did, anyhow. And so he did. With a deep intake of breath and a readjustment of his tie and suit, he marched to her as softly as possible, meaning to look determined but loving all the same. He stopped just short of where she sat, smiling down at her with a grin of nervousness and excitement and elatedness.

She finished talking before she even glanced at him. He never expected any different. But when her eyes raked over him, starting at his shoes and stopping dead at his own eyes, it was as though she paled entirely. Her rosebud lips fell into a little _o_, her fingertips coming up reflexively to cover her shocked expression. Almost immediately, tears began budding in her chocolate diamond eyes, and a small, barely audible gasp escaped her little mouth. "Is it—" She asked, and he nodded in response. She readjusted herself, sitting up and crossing her legs at the ankles and folding her hands over her lap, attempting to seem calm, cool, collected. "How?" She asked, disbelief laced in her voice. He didn't skip a beat. "I moved, I changed everything, I restarted my life." He answered, almost proudly. "I most certainly am glad to see you again," she said familiarly, a small laugh of hers ringing through the air, a laugh drowned by sorrow and longing already. "Jay."

"I'm quite glad to see you, too, Daisy."


End file.
